


Waves

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Dry Humping, Established Relationship, F/F, Kid Fic, Merpeople
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-24 08:24:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8364994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: At home, Queen Thorin’s just a loving partner.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rutobuka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rutobuka/gifts).



> A/N: HAPPY BIRTHDAY RUTO BABE ♥
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

There are some days, of course, where the kingdom is quiet enough to stay at home, but most, Thorin must spend on her throne. Her advisors are wise and her guards are loyal, and at a certain point in the evening, even at the busiest of times, she can finally retire her crown and let her underlings oversee things. Sometimes Dwalin coaxes her to stay a little longer, complete one more task, make one more decision, but tonight’s been a long one, and he lets her disappear out the back way to avoid the many suitors in the throne room just dying to see their queen.

She hasn’t got a ring yet—not _that_ sort of ring—but she still has a family and a partner at her side. She takes the long way to the chambers they share in order to avoid more distractions—Erebor always has _someone_ trying to corner her.

A guard waits outside even her back door, but he shuffles aside when he sees her swimming down the corner. She lifts a large finger to her lips to keep him quiet and slips in, then through the unused mudroom and into the large kitchen, where Bilbo has her back turned.

Selkies are quiet, even if they are almost as bulky as the Dwarven strain of merfolk (with much shorter tails of course), but Thorin spent decades in the wild before reclaiming her home, and she know show to sneak with the best of them. It’s too easy to wade behind her burglar and attack all in one go—her arms fly around Bilbo’s plump middle, and Bilbo cries out in surprise, the bowl in her hands going flying through the water.

Thorin chuckles and presses a kiss to Bilbo’s cheek, cooing, “Sorry, love,” even though she’s not that sorry. Bilbo’s scowl is utterly adorable, entirely worth it. She squirms in Thorin’s grasp but can’t get anywhere until Thorin releases her hold—as strong as Bilbo is, she can’t rival the biceps of a Dwarven queen. As soon as Thorin lets go, Bilbo’s snatching her bowl back and all the tidbits of half-ready food floating out of it. When Bilbo’s got it all fixed again and set down on the counter, Thorin wraps around her again and nuzzles into the back of her honey curls. The scent of her is Thorin’s favourite thing to come home to.

“Was it so bad a day?” Bilbo sighs. This time she leans in when Thorin nuzzles into her, though she still scolds, “So trying that you had to come make you poor, innocent partner jump like that?”

“Innocent?” Thorin snorts, her grip tightening around Bilbo’s round midsection. Into Bilbo’s slightly pointed ear, Thorin purrs, “My dear Ms. Baggins, you haven’t been innocent since I seduced you out of Bag End...” To mark her words, she bucks her own hips forward, pitching Bilbo into the counter and pinning her there. Bilbo gasps, the brown flippers at the end of her sleek tail trying to steady her against the sandy floor, but Thorin wraps her own tail thickly around Bilbo’s and gives a lewd squeeze. She knows what that sort of pressure does to her little lover, and sure enough, Bilbo bites back a pinched moan, growled deeper when Thorin slides eager hands down her ripe belly, just above the slit that always opens so easily for Thorin, gets so wet with just the slightest touches, starts to flush pink and—

Bilbo elbows her back and mutters, “I don’t remember it quite like that.” Thorin ignores the quip to kiss Bilbo’s shoulder, nose digging into her neck—she smells so _good_ , always has, spicy and exotic and tailored just to Thorin’s tastes. Thorin’s hands run back up to slide beneath the thick material wrapped around Bilbo’s breasts, but as soon as Thorin’s cupping them, Bilbo bucks her off completely and gasps, “Thorin, really!”

“What?” Now Thorin stops, even though she instantly misses being under Bilbo’s clothes. Thorin was ready to rip her own, more elaborate top right off on entering, but she expected Bilbo to be more into it. “It’s been so long since—”

A loud bout of laughter breaks in from the other room, and Thorin’s head whips around, realization dawning on her. She was going to say _since someone babysat for us,_ but she’d know that chiming laughter anywhere, and clearly, they’re not kid-free like she thought. Bilbo smiles apologetically and shrugs.

“But Balin...”

“Arrived just after Hamfast asked me to look after little Sam, and of course Frodo wanted to stay and play with him.”

“Balin could’ve taken them both,” Thorin suggests, even though it’s too late now. Bilbo just shrugs again and turns back to the food she was preparing. 

“You know how he is—Erebor’s all still new to him, and he’s one of the old lot that hadn’t ever met any mermaid, let alone the Dwarven kind, before you first came. You can’t expect him to hand his little boy off to an unknown like that, especially when he’s so into the old hierarchy. Everyone knows Balin’s the right hand to the queen.”

“And you’re _sleeping_ with the queen,” Thorin notes, to which Bilbo turns around and gives her a playful glare. Thorin supposes she still understands. They’re not _official_ , even though anyone who knows Thorin must know she couldn’t belong with anyone else. 

She finally gives into the situation and sighs, “Alright, I’ll save the fun for later, then. What would you have me do instead, oh illegitimate mistress of mine?”

“Go watch the boys until I’m done, which shouldn’t be long,” Bilbo easily responds. Thorin nods and turns towards the living room, but Bilbo grabs her arm at the last minute and pulls her closer for a quick kiss to her cheek. Thorin doesn’t kiss back, because she knows she won’t be able to keep it light, and Frodo has a tendency to wander into new places at inopportune times, even with Sam cautioning otherwise.

When Thorin does swim into the living room, she finds both boys seated in the boxed-off sand area, a neat little castle formed out of it. Frodo’s poking windows into the spiral towers, while Sam’s tending to little squares that look more like plots for crops than any royal architecture. He’s a simple, quaint little fellow, but he can make Frodo smile like no one else, and he’s very easy to babysit—far better behaved than Fíli and Kíli ever were. Not that Thorin doesn’t miss having them as tiny little guppies that could each fit in the crook of one arm. When Sam looks up to see Thorin coming, his cheeks turn rosy, and he bows over like he always does, which makes Frodo laugh, “You don’t have to bow _here_ silly—Auntie Thorin doesn’t mind.”

“Auntie Thorin gets enough of that all day, thank you,” Thorin agrees, but Sam still looks bashful as he straightens. Thorin makes a deliberate effort to smile in a less ‘gruff’ way, as Bilbo insists she can be intimidating, but selkie children are particularly tiny and timid. And it’s hardly Thorin’s fault that she towers over them with enormous hair and muscles and whatever else selkies attribute to strength that they don’t have. Frodo mitigates the damage by taking Sam’s hand and giving it a squeeze—somehow, Frodo got all the empathy of one aunt and all the fearlessness of another.

Frodo turns to Thorin when he’s done radiating comfort to Sam, and he insists with bright eyes and a hopeful grin, “Will you read us more tales of Elven merfolk, Auntie Thorin?”

Internally, Thorin cringes, but Sam’s round face goes wide with awe, and Frodo adds, “Sam really wants to hear them, but his old gaffer only reads selkie stories.”

If Frodo were a full-grown merman, Thorin would growl at him to stick to dwarves. But Frodo is an adored honourary nephew, and keeping him happy always gives Thorin points in Bilbo’s book, so she just begrudgingly nods. Frodo ignores Thorin’s obvious distaste of all Elven subject matter and swims hurriedly over to the corner of the room, where their shelf is crammed full of sea-scrolls delivered from every which place. It started with a personal collection recovered from Thráin’s old stores, then grew with Bilbo’s imported stock from the Shire, and now that they have Frodo to read to, Gandalf’s given them stories from as far as Gondor. The one Frodo pulls out isn’t one Thorin recognizes, but then, she usually falls asleep when Bilbo tries to read her ancient Elven tales. 

Nonetheless, Thorin plucks the scroll out of Frodo’s hands and swims over to the couch. She pats the seat next to her, but Sam still looks hesitant, so Frodo has to tug him over by the hand. Neither boy has their flippers fully developed, and it takes them an absurdly long time to cross the living room by Thorin’s standards—Fíli and Kíli were tearing up the whole house by their age. But Dwarves are mischievous from the start and selkies are patient, even the curious ones like Frodo. He pulls Sam into Thorin’s lap with him, and Thorin lets the two of them get comfortable against her large scales. Then she wraps her arms around them to unroll the scroll and is thankful to find it written in the common tongue. Frodo pushes some of Thorin’s hefty golden necklaces off to the side so he can rest more comfortably against her breast, but Sam sits up straight and looks wide-eyed at the scroll.

“Long ago,” Thorin starts, because that’s how most of the Elven stories begin, long-winded as they are. The tale she reads off is, at first, not much of a tale at all, but more just a listing of various ancient elf names and ranks and boastings of their splendor. Somehow, both boys still seem interested by the time something _finally_ starts happening, and one of the three main elves decides to swim west and see what lies beyond their valley.

A meter of scroll and no plot advancements later, Bilbo wades out of the kitchen with a tray of bowls in her hands and announces, “Dinner time.”

Sam makes a quiet, disappointed, “Aw,” as though he was generally interested in hearing the inane Elven history Frodo picked, but Frodo bolts right off Thorin’s lap and swims off into the dining room. Sam instantly scrambles off to follow.

As the end of Sam’s flippers disappears through the dining room doorway, Bilbo tells Thorin consolingly, “He’ll get over it.”

“Get over what?” Thorin asks, swimming closer herself.

“Being shy around the big, bold dwarf queen.” Bilbo pauses her explanation when Thorin’s close enough to take some of the bowls out of her arms and lighten the load. “It would help, though, if you would stop looking so brooding every time an elf’s mentioned.”

“I don’t brood,” Thorin insists, even though she knows that’s a losing argument, and Bilbo just fondly rolls her eyes and heads off after the boys.

The table they sit at is much smaller than the official dining room, where the queen of Erebor is meant to eat and her family used to go to when she was little. That was when Erebor was only for certain merfolk, and now Thorin has a more humble people to contend with. It’s worth it when Bilbo’s home-cooked salad is set out on the table, even if it’s not the elaborate, meaty feast the official cooks would have prepared. Bilbo serves Thorin a large portion of it, and Thorin says, “Thank you,” and tugs Bilbo down to kiss her cheek again. Bilbo gives her a playful swat and moves on.

Dinner is a pleasant affair, even if it’s not the steamy evening Thorin was anticipating. Frodo and Sam eat with full manners, and Thorin does her best to be on good behaviour, because it’s one thing to pass bad habits onto their Frodo, but Bilbo won’t let her hear the end of it if she doesn’t show ‘proper etiquette’ in front of Sam. Sam’s the first to say, “This is really yummy, Ms. Baggins.”

“Thank you, Samwise,” Bilbo answers in just as polite a tone. “I’m glad _someone_ enjoys it enough to eat the entire thing.”

Thorin frowns at the dig but doesn’t stop picking the tomatoes out of her salad. She eats and does like the rest, especially the potatoes chunks that Sam heartily takes to, but tomatoes are still an affront to society.

Frodo inconspicuously scoops up one of the tomatoes that Thorin’s pushed to the side of his bowl, to which Bilbo just sighs. If Frodo ever did that at Sam’s home, Thorin knows she’d be in a heap of trouble.

But it doesn’t change the fact that Frodo’s become _Thorin’s_ nephew too, and he’s going to come out at least a _little_ bit dwarf.

He finishes his entire salad and most of Thorin’s tomatoes, and then they’re done, and Frodo’s asking, “What ever happened to those three elves, Auntie?” For some reason, he looks at Thorin instead of Bilbo. Thorin has no clue.

Bilbo answers for her, “Auntie Thorin will tell you now, if you promise to go to bed on time tonight without a fuss.” Frodo wrinkles his nose, but Sam looks horrified at the very concept of arguing with his caregivers. Thorin tries to spare herself more Elven stories by reaching for the dishes, but Bilbo slaps her hand away and saccharinely says, “I’ll wash up—you go finish your story.” If it weren’t for the twinkle in Bilbo’s eye that promises fun afterwards, Thorin would pull rank and refuse. 

But she’s not the only queen in these chambers, so she begrudgingly acquiesces and retreats back to the living room, both guppies trailing after. Frodo grabs one of the excess fins on Thorin’s side to be carried swiftly along, but Sam makes the journey on his own, and Frodo goes back after to finish it with him.

Back on the couch, Thorin reads the boring scroll to the boys while the sounds of clinking dishes trail in from the kitchen. The story does get marginally more interesting when the elves come to the end of the ocean and have to crawl over land to reach the next stretch of water, but by the time they’ve reached the prophesied lake, both boys are slumping against Thorin with obvious lethargy. Thorin continues on anyway, until Frodo breaks into Thorin’s deep drawl with an abrupt yawn.

To Thorin’s surprise, Frodo doesn’t protest when she begins to roll the scroll up again. Maybe the story was slow enough to lull even his energy away. After setting the scroll aside, it’s all too easy to scoop Sam and Frodo up in each arm. Then she carries them both into Frodo’s bedroom, where she tucks them into the bed, built for young dwarves and thus quite large enough for two selkie children. Sam’s asleep as soon as he hits the pillow, but Frodo asks around another yawn, “Did the elves reach their new home, Auntie Thorin?”

“Yes,” Thorin says, even though she has no idea and Frodo will likely find out one day, when he takes more interest in reading on his own. “They found the lake they were looking for and were very happy.”

“Can we cross the big land and go there too?” 

Thorin’s first instinct is to say certainly not, but then she thinks of just how far her favourite selkie once traveled into the unknown, and how happy it made her in the end. So Thorin says, “Perhaps someday,” and bends down to kiss Frodo’s forehead between his chestnut curls. 

Frodo smiles happily and shuts his eyes, then rolls over and snuggles up to Sam. Thorin can’t help but think that if Frodo ever did make such a large journey, poor Sam would wind up getting roped in too. But then, as isolated as Thorin used to feel, she knows the value of good company.

When she’s back into the hall, quietly shutting Frodo’s door, Bilbo swims in from the kitchen. She gives Thorin that radiant smile of hers that Thorin in a paternal role always seems to bring out in her. It makes the worry of Frodo growing up enough to journey away dissipate, and brings Thorin back down to this, here and now, the end of their own journey, where she has everything she ever wanted: her mountain back, her crown, her people content again, and her selkie by her side.

They swim down the hall without a word, around the corner and into the master bedroom, where Thorin shuts the door and watches Bilbo float backwards towards the bed, her hands already under the top that holds her chest in. Thorin drifts towards her and unfastens a necklace at the same time, then another, the third, and the rings and bangles on each arm—being the queen of a treasure-filled mountain comes with far more trinkets than belong in the bedroom. There are nights where Thorin dresses Bilbo in them—drapes her in ropes of pearls and golden chains and glimmering jewels of every colour, but Bilbo’s just as beautiful like this, in nothing but skin and scales. 

By the time Bilbo slides onto the bed, she’s naked, just the way Thorin wants her. Thorin gets her own top off just in time to slip over Bilbo, one hand coming to Bilbo’s waist and the other reaching to tug the shade down over the light-stone on the nightstand. The room dips into a pale glow, just enough to still see the silhouette of Bilbo’s tempting curves. Bilbo’s stout fingers slide up into the tangle of Thorin’s hair, and Thorin hisses at the delicious burn of Bilbo pulling her down by it. Their mouths come together, and Thorin can still taste the vinaigrette dressing of Bilbo’s dinner. Bilbo’s aching scent floods her: the most alluring part of all.

“I’m sorry,” Bilbo murmurs, when one kiss ends and Thorin tilts to place the next on Bilbo’s chin. It lets her open her mouth to scrape dull teeth along Bilbo’s jaw, down to her neck—Bilbo’s always so _sensitive_ there. Bilbo arches up into Thorin’s body and moans when Thorin sucks one silky patch of flushed skin, then gasps around it, “About the babysitting. I know you wanted—”

“Hush,” Thorin insists. She punctuates her order with a nip to Bilbo’s shoulder, then laves her broad tongue over the bruise, and Bilbo shivers and nods against her. It doesn’t matter. They can afford to delay this now, because there will always be time for it later—Thorin intends to keep Bilbo here with her for a long, long time.

There was a time when Bilbo thought of going back. But Thorin quenched that with a kiss and brought the Shire to Bilbo. Now they’re too entangled in each other’s lives, and Thorin starts to wind her tail possessively around Bilbo’s just in case. She inhales deeply, swallowing that scent all over. The mere thought of losing Bilbo always makes her wild. Once, she thought this gorgeous creature a silly thing, a useless fish more grocer than adventurer, but that was before Bilbo stole her way into Thorin’s life. Bilbo’s flippers fold over Thorin’s tail after the coil is tied, as if to hold on, and Thorin grinds Bilbo down into the bed hard enough to make the mattress groan.

At first, Thorin sticks to kisses, raining them all along Bilbo’s collar, up her throat again, along her jaw, and Bilbo squirms and moans and leans into every one. Thorin starts with gentle bites, not enough to bruise, just enough to feel, then covers the red patches in her tongue, then sucks, and that makes marks just as strong, though Bilbo’s ripe skin is resilient and hides the pink circles quickly, forcing Thorin to suck in more. Stray spots and freckles dot Bilbo everywhere, and these Thorin likes to lick around, making patterns with the fresh grooves Thorin puts between. Bilbo just tosses her head back and runs her fingers along Thorin’s back. Then Thorin’s pulled up again, and Bilbo leans in for another lengthy kiss. Lining them up this way flattens Thorin’s breasts down into Bilbo’s, and the pressure drives her wild for _more_ , but Bilbo sucks in Thorin’s tongue and won’t let it go, even bites Thorin’s bottom lip when she tries to leave.

So, stuck with Bilbo’s scrumptious mouth, Thorin users her hands to roam. She clutches at Bilbo’s breasts from either side, digging her fingers in to knead each large globe, enjoying the weight, the warmth, the fullness that pushes against her palm. Better yet is Bilbo’s noises, stifled between their mouths. Thorin’s careful in her ardor, knowing she’s made her poor lover’s breasts too sore on more than one occasion, but it’s always a struggle not to burry herself in Bilbo’s chest and grind the night away. Finally, she can’t take it anymore, and has to lift up enough to slip her hands between them and feel Bilbo’s front properly—she plucks at Bilbo’s pert nipples and rolls them around, while Bilbo writhes and whines against her lips. When Thorin gives them a sharp tug, Bilbo breaks the kiss to cry out and buck up against Thorin. It leaves a slightly sticky smear across Thorin’s front, too thick to dissolve in the water around them. That feeling always gives Thorin a smirk—nothing gives her a thrill like tempting out Bilbo’s pussy.

Like Bilbo, Thorin can feel her body responding. Her folds are opening, the slit in her front becoming more prominent, and when she finds just the right angle and slides along Bilbo, their delicate lips rub together. Bilbo moans instantly, Thorin growling in delight, and she bucks back, harder, digs Bilbo into the bed and does it again—she can feel her own juices bubbling out to meet Bilbo’s. Bilbo’s so _wet_ for her, so slick and wide, revealing more and more of their most intimate parts to grind into one another. Thorin’s tail constricts, pulling them tighter, securing them together, the pressure exquisite—she crushes their bodies into one another and devours Bilbo’s mouth with hers, while Bilbo’s busy hands clutch more desperately at her back. Bilbo’s hips quiver and pound up in a steady rhythm to slam them together, but Thorin does the bulk of it, riding Bilbo with everything she has. 

Every part of Bilbo delights her. Nearing a peak, her mouth stays attached to Bilbo’s—can’t leave—Bilbo tastes so _good_ and kisses so fervently, so wantonly, so hungrily, and Thorin’s tail squeezes as hard as it can, one spasm of pressure after another, but her hands move everywhere—Bilbo’s soft breasts, Bilbo’s wide hips, the curves of Bilbo’s waist and the hump of her ass where skin meets scales. Thorin’s mapped this body a hundred times, and still it excites her, drives her wild—it’s never enough—she’s taken Bilbo everywhere from here to the Shire and back again, all over this submerged mountain, from the treasury to the throne, and still their comely bed fills Thorin with hot need. There’s nothing like the way Bilbo feels in her hands, the way Bilbo smells when she’s aroused. Bilbo’s scent is the greatest aphrodisiac, and it mounts around Thorin, growing thicker with each slide of their bodies, closer and closer to the edge, clouding Thorin in a haze of sheer _want_ , and she can’t take the rush of _pleasure_ anymore—she’s the first to spiral over the edge in a feral roar.

She rides her orgasm the same way she earned it: humping Bilbo and soaking in the love. Bilbo meets her back, thrust for thrust, squeeze for squeeze, tongue and teeth in nonstop motion. Thorin loses sense of time, weight, and drowns in this. The relentless strength goes on its own, until there’s no energy left, and Thorin begins to come down.

She’s still dizzy from her own finish when she feels Bilbo come against her, juices squelching out to slick along Thorin’s opening. Thorin gives a final squeeze to open and take some inside, and Bilbo moans helplessly and clings to Thorin for dear life. She rides out her own orgasm just as hard, but eventually slows as much as Thorin, until they’re both panting hard and unable to keep up their messy trail of kisses.

Heavy and satiated, Thorin slumps down atop her lover. She noses into the side of Bilbo’s face, taking a final whiff of Bilbo’s spent arousal, and Bilbo chuckles and pushes at her shoulders, murmuring, “Love, you’re too heavy for that.”

So Thorin rolls off, begrudgingly uncoiling her tail. Her scales feel abruptly cold where Bilbo’s touch has left her, but that’s what blankets are for. Ever into order, Bilbo’s already pulling at them, and Thorin has to wade up a few centimeters to let Bilbo pull them out from under her.

They’re both perspiring into the already stuffy air of their bedroom, both messy under their stomachs, but they’ll have time to clean up in the morning before they venture out again—they always tire themselves out with no room after for other things. Bilbo wafts the blankets over them and smoothes it all out, while Thorin just looks at Bilbo’s beautiful face, made even prettier in the afterglow. Her skin always stays rosily flushed afterwards, her eyes still a little dilated, lashes heavy, scent still blazing. Still naked. Thorin looks at her and wonders how one bitter dwarf without a mountain or a copper coin to her name ever got so lucky.

Bilbo either doesn’t see Thorin’s wistful stare or is used to the adoring looks, because she snuggles right up to Thorin’s side like the adult version of her nephew. Thorin has more stamina than Sam and still has the energy to wrap one arm over Bilbo, pulling them close again. So close that their noses bump, Bilbo mumbles, “They made it, you know. The elves.”

Thorin didn’t, and doesn’t care, but what does make her smile is: “You were listening?”

“Mhm,” Bilbo answers. She pauses once to yawn. “I always like to hear you being a good mother-figure.”

“Not a queen-figure?” Thorin snorts. Bilbo just grins and playfully shoves at Thorin’s shoulder under the blanket. And in that moment, without thinking, Thorin lets out, “What about a wife?”

She should’ve said that a long time ago, she knows. She didn’t mean to bring it up now. It’s not enough. As lovely as domestic bliss with Bilbo is, Bilbo deserves a dazzling proposal in some grand courtyard, with flowers and diamonds and every last bit of love Thorin can pour into it. 

But Bilbo, who can still surprise Thorin after all this time, murmurs sleepily, “Oh, don’t give me a lazy proposal now—I have a proper one planned, so you’ll just have to be patient for my surprise.”

Bilbo shuts her eyes after, but Thorin’s smiling anyway, her mouth almost hurting from how wide it is—she hadn’t thought of _Bilbo_ being the one to propose. She’d just assumed, being older and royal and the one that started all this in the first place, that she’d be the one to pop the question.

But this is good. This is perfect. Thorin kisses Bilbo’s forehead and settles in to sleep, with the greatest gem she knows tucked warmly in her arms.


End file.
